


In Thy Woman's Weeds

by BadOldWest



Category: SHAKESPEARE William - Works, Twelfth Night - Shakespeare
Genre: F/M, Greaser AU, Nothing crazy but some gender stuff is messed with, gender fluidity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 13:05:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8447047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadOldWest/pseuds/BadOldWest
Summary: He can remember it, they both can remember it, when he pressed his lips to her ear, excited to have unwrapped a woman from his most trusted friend, and whispered, “I want to see you in a dress.”
1950's Greaser AU.





	

What do you do when the guy you’d depended on, thought of like a brother, found no other equal quite like, ends up a woman?

_ A woman _ ; a woman who had spoken the same thoughts, who’d had the same access to his thoughts and desires as Cesario had, one that had offered him the advice that he thought fell from impartial, male lips?

They’re both silent as they walk side by side, like they both know something’s changed. When she was a boy, he could tell her anything. He could talk about women. But now she was a girl, and she was  _ the _ girl, so he both had the person he wanted, but not the one he wanted to talk to about  _ her _ . Because how could he ask advice about her, from her?

“I think I stashed them here,” she says, pointing with a steady hand to the valley between dunes under the boardwalk. 

A tremble runs down her spine, he can see it in her shoulders, still walking with her shoulders wide and powerful like a man’s. 

He can remember it, they both can remember it, when he pressed his lips to her ear, excited to have unwrapped a woman from his most trusted friend, and whispered, “I want to see you in a dress.”

Maybe it was the shock of unveiling herself to him. Incredulous as he was, during the fight in the garage, when instead of throwing a punch back at him, she simply lifted her shirt over her head to expose bound breasts, wrapped tight in an ace bandage. 

Even with Olivia watching, Orsino lifted a trembling hand. Catching himself, he lowered it to his side before it rested on her chest. Shock emboldened him, but he didn’t know if he could touch her now.

Still, his back was to everyone else, and she was caged in his shadow. She gathered his hands in her, drawing one to the smooth skin exposed. A half-moon of breast compressed under the binding. His fingers flexed around the curve, testing. He seemed to understand what he found. 

He drew closer, cupping the back of her neck in his free hand, pressing against her. 

“Give me your hand,” he’d whispered, and she allowed him to take the very hand that had guided him to her breast. The other at her neck replaced it, as though he wanted remaining proof. Her eyes glanced over her shoulder, but everyone seemed preoccupied with Olivia and Sebastian trying to work out what was happening between each other, and she and Orsino slipped into a cover of their ignorance. 

As she had proved her womanhood to him, she realized, he was slipping her hands over the front of his jeans, proving his manhood to her.

He was so hard for her. Ready. 

Her fingers flexed under his grip, feeling him. 

He kissed her neck once and whispered the words, and that’s where they went to next. To find the dress. To make her a girl again. 

There and then the physicality of their relationship translated easily.  _ These are my parts for you.  _

Now it was harder, because so little had actually changed, and that’s scary to the two of them.

Walking across the sand that night, bumping shoulders, rolled sleeves exposing bare arms that brush against each other. 

He likes her in jeans. Maybe he spoke rashly to demand a dress. He didn’t mind the hair buzzed at the base of her skull, the slick hair that fell over her eye. Maybe it was familiar. Maybe he’d already learned to like it. 

She’s fumbling in the dark, under the boardwalk, pulling out a bundle of clothes. 

“It’s nothing fancy,” she excuses, going to unfold the skirt. 

He doesn’t know why he seizes her and kisses her before she goes any further. She drops the dress and stockings and underwear onto the ground, all of her feminine apparel, and grabs his face to control the kiss. 

They become mirrored creatures; bare arms and shoulder-bearing their weight, skinny legs in tight jeans. Wiry and entangled. 

They sink onto the sand, and she’s not plush and accepting like other girls, she’s forcing her kiss back at him, wrapping herself around him, wrestling with him. 

God, he likes it. He’s not sure why he likes it. The same way that scrawny kid at the scrapyard was so strange to him. He could not place why he so often thought of it. 

When he’s on top of her again, having barely won the fight for dominance, she shuffled after she spreads her legs for him, reaching down the front of her jeans. 

She flinches, shuffling awkwardly. 

“I should probably,” her throat is dry, she licks her lips.

She doesn’t finish the thought, instead tries to slip a rolled up sock out of her jeans. Her cheeks are flushed. 

It takes him a minute to register that she just removed a trace of Cesario. With that knowledge, a tremble rides through his spine. He had felt it against his hip, scarcely noticing, finding it natural. He clings tighter to her body, trapped underneath his on the sand, and grabs her filled hand. Stops her.

“I like it,” he admits, his voice pitched lower, with no strength to carry it any farther from her ear. 

His hands reach clumsily down between her legs and pet the length she had slipped there. 

“I...I like it,” he repeats, seemingly more scared to tell himself than to tell her. Cesario. Viola. Both of them. 

She arches into his touch, the pressure it creates between her legs, the way it presses against her thigh. 

“Me too,” she admits.

She plants her booted feet in the sand, grounding herself to roll her hips up against his. The false bulge in her pants teases his. He groans helplessly into her neck as she takes control, coaxing and soothing him, pleasing him in this way that feels so fucked up and raw. 

He’s supposed to be the one stroking her back and holding her arms and whispering such sinful promises in  _ her _ ear, not the other way around. Not how it’s happening. 

There’s sand on her face, and when he kisses her it scratches like stubble. He wishes he could hate it. But she seems to like the mutual scratching as much as he does. She can’t ever be less than his equal, he realizes. He can’t give her any less of himself, it always has to be more. 

“You seem to like me better this way,” she purrs, God, she’s better at that than he is. 

It’s too much for him. Her legs in her tight jeans and the muscles of her arms and her slim hips and perfect ass, writhing against him with his legs bracketing her, turning him into the breathless one lost to these sensations. It’s too much and it’s raising too many questions and for a moment he gets scared. 

He pulls away, breaks a kiss, and for a moment he sees her eyes flash with some little horror, scared to have overstepped with her newfound power. 

He’ll try though. He trusts her. 

He’d give her anything, at this point. But first. 

“Get the dress on,” he growls, “and we’ll see.”


End file.
